


clothed only in obscenity

by apolliades



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alley Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Credence Barebone Crying During Sex, Crying, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lowercase, M/M, Obedience, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Short, Virgin Credence Barebone, i feel bad for writing this and yet here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 08:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13267986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: oh, and his mother won’t be pleased, when he comes home with mud on his knees and his shirt untucked.





	clothed only in obscenity

**Author's Note:**

> written dec '16 / title from good lust by keaton henson

credence is all soft wet mouth, pale trembling hands an a desperate eagerness to please. but this is one of those practices in which eagerness does not make up for a lack of skill. he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, where to put them; he fumbles and flutters and doesn’t quite dare to touch. doesn’t know how to work his tongue, doesn’t know what to do with his fucking teeth. his gag reflex is pitiful. but he tries. bless his poor sinning heart, he tries. when mister graves gets nicked by his teeth one time too many, shoves him off spluttering and whimpering and teary-eyed, credence grabs at his hips, fingers scrambling across his thighs, sobbing “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i can do better, please, i’m sorry.” 

poor thing. he tries so hard. so mister graves takes pity on him, and gives him a lesson. 

the moment mister graves’ mouth touches him credence goes rigid. every muscle in his body seizing up like he’s petrified. he still doesn’t know what to do with his hands. wants to put them in mister graves’ hair, just for something to hold onto — doesn’t dare. instead they scrape against the wall behind him, scrabbling for purchase till his skin is grazed red and sore, nails digging in to the dry mortar between the bricks till they snap. 

“mister graves,” he can barely breathe to get the words out; his narrow chest is heaving, swelling under his shirt, “m-mister— what are you— what are you doing to me—”

it barely takes a minute. credence cries when he comes, his moan a strangled off wail, face screwed up in something more akin to agony. he’s shaking, shaking so hard it feels like he’s going to fall apart from it, have his bones rattled out of his body; his legs won’t hold him, and he collapses, and because graves is feeling patient, he catches him. credence twists his skinny fingers into the front of graves’ shirt and spends a few minutes - as many minutes as he’s allowed - pressed against him, shuddering. mister graves strokes his hair and soothes him and tells him he did well. good boy, he tells him, such a good boy.

praise is like a drug, to credence. calms and excites him at once, motivates and placates him at once. he'll do anything for it. 

mister graves pushes him to his knees again. uncurls credence's fingers gently but firmly from his shirt and stands. credence gazes up at him, still shaking, lashes fluttering. his hands are balled into white knuckle fists on his thighs, and the fly of his trousers is still open, belt unbuckled, glinting when it catches the lamp light. he doesn't even seem to have noticed. oh, and his mother won’t be pleased, when he comes home with mud on his knees and his shirt untucked. 

graves can imagine him, trying desperately to clean himself up before going home, scrubbing at the stains until he’s crying with frustration. trying desperately but failing anyway, taking the beating for it anyway. what will his excuse be, this time? that he tripped? most likely he won’t say anything at all. just bow before his mother, palms up, waiting.

endearing though it is, graves’ patience has worn too thin to bother with any more of credence's hopelessly overzealous fumbling, so he pulls himself off instead, leaning against the wall and taking some kind of satisfaction from the way credence watches him, eyes wide, enrapt; horrified and captivated both at once. just as he gets close, he reaches down with one hand and pushes his thumb into credence’s mouth, parts his jaws with ease. he comes with a sound halfway between a grunt and a snarl, and it splatters across credence’s pale lips. graves watches, pleased, as credence tries his best not to gag, not to show his disgust. after he’s spent almost a full minute just sitting there like that, graves tells him to swallow, and he does. cleans it tentatively off his lips with the tip of his shy tongue.

graves can see how much credence is focusing on not grimacing; the tendons in his neck are drawn taught. what a good, good boy. he lays his palm on the crown of credence’s skull and guides him to lean against his thigh; through the fabric of his pants he can feel the furious heat of his cheek, the tears and the spit soaking in. credence is silent save for his breathing. 

“good boy,” he tells him, one final time more, “you did well. but now, i’m afraid, i must be going.” 

that gets a noise out of him. that has credence lifting his head with a whimper, curling his thin fingers weakly into the hem of graves’ coat. the last thing graves sees is the fear on the boy’s face before he steps away and, with a crack, leaves him. 


End file.
